The Family Bonds of the Baskervilles
by medcat
Summary: Stapleton held such a high opinion about his knowledge in the natural sciences that he failed to pay sufficient attention to other people's knowledge. Written by WinterBell and betaed by х любимая х in Russian, for the Fandom Battle 2015 challenge on diary dot ru; translated by me and posted here with the author's kind permission.
1. Chapter 1

"All power lies in knowledge!" Father Baskerville used to say, while he, seemingly absent-mindedly, knocked out his pipe against the edge of the plate-he frequently did that, if the plate stood close to him and he didn't feel like reaching across the table for the ash-tray. Each time, Jack raptly watched this maneuver, silently guessing whether Father would be able to pull this off or not. Sometimes Mother Baskerville, intrigued by these words, which sounded like a very promising prologue to a story, failed to notice the tobacco crumbs poured out onto her dishes, but sometimes she did notice and started a fuss because of the resulting disorder. In those cases, Father had to tell a more engaging tale, so that she would settle down.

The subject of these tales could be absolutely anything. About how he and his comrades, just after they came from overseas and were not yet accustomed to life in Central America, had to raft down a river that was teeming with alligators, and escaped dire peril only thanks to his wits. About a band of con men, who tried to fleece him and sell him a totally useless piece of land, which was one continuous marsh. In this case, actually, Jack thought that his Pop slipped up: there are plenty of amazing things concealed in the marshes, which you wouldn't find on the heat-baked plains. Nonetheless, he listened to his father without interrupting, even though he knew the ending ahead of time: the elder Baskerville would aim his wrinkled finger, snugly encircled by the dulled signet ring, at the younger Baskerville, and declare:

"The point I'm making here, son, is that knowledge can get you out of any trouble. If your fists aren't too big, use your head to fight. Study, son, and study well."

At first, Roger Baskerville cherished a hope that his offspring would succeed in banking or law. His own career was so far from the ideal that he desperately wanted to make up for it via the success of his descendant. The interest Jack evinced towards his books gave Roger great hopes, and very soon, he had valid reasons to be proud of his son's literacy. But the further course of events puzzled the elder Baskerville tremendously. All his attempts to interest the boy in numbers and in curious court cases failed completely. Jack spent hours running about the meadow with a butterfly net or lolled around on his belly near the pond, gazing through his magnifying glass at the little bugs milling about on the half-rotten branches and seaweed. One wouldn't dare call it idleness, either-a plump notebook was always peeking out of his jacket pocket. Anyone looking through that notebook would have seen multiple notes about different coloration of similar in shape butterflies, a cloud of exclamation marks around the date when a multitude of snow-white insect eggs turned up under an old tree root, and the happy date when tiny bugs came out into the world from those eggs. The notes were interspersed with drawings, on which even the tiniest bristles on the insects' legs were painstakingly drawn.

The father Baskerville scratched his head, cleared his throat, and huffed and puffed, lost in thought about how to regard such a turn of events. The mother Baskerville concerned herself regarding only one thing: to make sure that her precious child did not catch cold while lying for hours on the shore of the pond, and did not tear his clothes while climbing trees in search of ants and other small insects. But Jack only grew visibly stronger, while spending entire days in the open air, and his parents made peace with the status quo. Father Baskerville thought it over for a while, and started telling a new series of tales, having slightly changed them, to fit the current circumstances.

"Natural history is a serious science," he uttered, pointing his finger towards the ceiling in admonishment, as if someone were objecting to his statement. There was nobody to contradict him. Jack would have put his signature twice over under this postulate, and his mamma had no interest in any of the different kinds of sciences. But that was where Roger segued into his tale, and his listeners pricked up their ears. Because among Baskerville the elder's favorite stories, there were some that didn't simply engage the listener but thrilled their imagination.

"In front of the suddenly-sobered revelers," Roger was saying in an ominous, hushed voice, and stared off into space with a feverish glitter in his eyes, "the monstrous dog tore up Hugo's throat, and then raised its head, and everybody saw the fresh blood glistening on its canines…"

The carefree singing of birds outside the window would fall silent, and instead, the soft whining of frightened bloodhounds and the snorting of resisting horses was heard from afar. The shadows of the leaves which fell onto the window-will, grew, as if a cool night mist crept throughout the room. And even the summer Costa Rican heat decreased, retreating from the chilling horror of the legend.

During those times, Roger Baskerville could knock out his pipe not only against his plate, but even against the polished to a mirror shine coffeepot-Mrs Baskerville would not have uttered a single word of reproach. As if enchanted, she sat listening to her husband, and on her face, one could discern a mixture of horror and delight. Jack sat next to her on a little bench and looked at his father without breaking eye contact.

And the elder Baskerville, having told the ancient legend, would fall silent and slowly shake his head.

"This tale was narrated to us in our early childhood," he informed his listeners, suddenly, and his voice, clear and loud, had nothing in common with that mysterious whisper with which he'd told the legend. "And you know what? Charles, my dear older brother, was frightened to the point of trembling with fear. That night, when we were first told about our family curse, he couldn't even sleep for fear: he pulled the blanket up over his head and was shaking so hard that I could hear his bedsprings creaking."

Roger harrumphed and tamped down another portion of tobacco into his pipe.

"He used to put on such airs, but he was afraid of this family ghost," he muttered, chuckling.

"And he was the oldest of us three! Oh, my younger brother and I, we used to have a great deal of fun teasing him… We played pranks on him, many times. One time, he got so flustered that we even got a dressing-down from our parents."

He would fall silent for a moment, lost in the reminiscences about childhood mischief, and then he would shake himself and raise his head.

"This is the reason I brought it up: study natural history, Jack! Study it thoroughly, and then nobody can deceive you with any such tales."

And Jack moved closer to his father on the little bench and finally asked the question which had occupied his thoughts for the last few minutes:

"So what breed was the dog?"


	2. Chapter 2

Jack Baskerville, better known in the homeland of his ancestors as Stapleton, never did find a suitable breed to play the role of the Baskerville demon, and picked out a mixed breed. The dog grew so huge that sometimes he sincerely regretted that it was not possible to show it off to the neighbours. And it was difficult to say what drove him more: the pride of the researcher or the pride of the owner. In part, however, that pride was fed by the disjointed tales of the farmers: they had only seen his pet in passing, and that sufficed for them not to show their face in the marshes for a long time, and not only during the night, but during the broad day as well. And thank goodness they didn't-if any of them were eaten by the hungry dog for dinner, others would start wondering how come the personal apparition of the Baskervilles suddenly violated its diet. That is, of course, assuming that the ignorant residents of Grimpen would be able to delve that deeply. But it is doubtful that one would have to be concerned about that: Stapleton has become firmly convinced that, at the mere sight of his dog, even those people claiming to be educated lose their common sense. People like his uncle.

Or, as he found out, his cousin.

Stapleton had noticed before, that Henry gets nervous when the Baskerville apparition is mentioned in his presence. Of course, he pretended not to show it, and blustered and puffed himself up in front of Beryl, just like a turkey-cock, whose mistress cuts up such apparitions into his feed bowl every day.

But at this time, Beryl was nowhere near. There were only the night's darkness, fog, the splashes of phosphorescent ointment on the muzzle of the agitated dog, and the invisible Stapleton in the bushes-the most suitable environment for yelling bloody murder, which exactly what Henry was doing. One could be happy with that, if not for one particular circumstance. With despair, Stapleton found out that Henry wasn't yelling that loudly. The yells were loud because at least three or four other people were also yelling. And when pistol shots were added to the yells, Stapleton despaired entirely. The obvious hoo-ha could only mean one thing: it was time for him to flee.

Cursing under his breath, Jack tore himself away from the clinging branches of the bush and loped along the barely visible in the darkness path to the marsh.

The fog, on which he'd counted so much in his undertaking, turned out to be treacherous, just like the offspring of the water element would: it played against the person who dreamed of making it his ally. It was covering the footpath with its swaying whitish paws, mixed up the contours of the scraggy bushes and trees, stole the guiding-wands, which Jack and Beryl had providently placed on the way to the very heart of the mire. And then, the fog tripped him up with a tree-root, and Jack, mentally saying farewell to the entire wide world, fell down, towards the dark water, covered by a thick layer of algae.

He was well aware of how the digestive system of the monster called mire worked. So many times he had observed how, from underneath a peaceful green covering, peeks out, yawning, the black maw of the mute Charybdis. He had seen, how the attempts to to tear oneself away from its grip only hasten one's inevitable destruction, but he could not help himself-instinctively, he jerked towards the dull, overcast sky, flapped his arms...and someone's hand, hot, hard, and viselike, crumpled his collar in its hold, grabbing onto the scruff of his neck into the bargain.

"Stop flapping around!" barked someone's voice. "You, of all people, ought to be aware what ends up happening to anyone who is tumbling about in a mire."

The voice seemed oddly familiar. Trying to to move his entire body, Jack shook his head, so as to cast off the sheet of algae which had covered his eyes. On the footpath, an arm's length away from him, a solidly-built man stood on all fours and held on to Jack's collar with a death grip. Darkness did not allow one to see his face, and Stapleton had other concerns at the moment, in any case. He spit out the algae which had filled his mouth-could it be that he was even trying to yell while in the mire?!-and with difficulty, pulled his arm out of the viscous fluid. The man grabbed Stapleton under his arms, strained, huffed and puffed...At one moment, it seemed to Jack that they both of them were about to fall into the morass this time, and then the end would certainly be unavoidable. But the unknown rescuer did not lack for strength or stubbornness, and in the struggle of man against the morass, the latter lost. The fluid slurped disappointedly, and Jack collapsed onto the footpath, which was dirty and slippery, but so beautifully solid! A wet doggy nose poked him in the face, and his rescuer, catching his breath, plopped down onto the ground next to him.

"In the grand scheme of things, I ought to have left you there," he uttered, with regret in his voice.

Jack, who was still trying to catch his breath, lifted his head. His eyes slowly got accustomed to the darkness, and he started blinking confusedly, vainly attempting to make sense of what he was seeing. His mind was refusing to accept the tableau in front of him, unless on one condition: that Jack immediately go and hide someplace. Even back in the morass. Even there, he would be safer, because the mire is only a pathway to death, but if you are sitting on the grass right next to a dead person, that means that you have already died yourself as well. And the natural science, which claims such things are impossible, can go to hell. How can such things be impossible, when here he is, Uncle Baskerville, in person.

"Get up, nephew dear," Sir Charles ordered gloomily, rising to his feet. Dr. Mortimer's spaniel, which was hanging about, delightedly waved his stub of a tail. Jack closed his eyes and started recalling the words of "Pater noster".


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a long time since the sitting-room of Baskerville Hall had so many people in it. Barrymore was doing something with the fireplace. Sir Charles had taken his customary place at the head of the table, and Henry, who had substituted for him for a time in the position of the head of the family, was sprawled in the armchair to Sir Charles' right. Henry was still clad in his mud-spattered clothing, but that did not concern him. He was drinking the grog, which Mrs Barrymore had hastily made, and cast fierce glances over the top of his mug at his newly-acquired cousin.

Jack was sitting in the corner, trying to wrap himself as deeply as he could in his cocoon made of towels. Never was he so little flattered by the attention of those around him as he was tthis night. And everyone who gathered in the house looked at him without pause, and he didn't even dare to free his arm out of the pile of rags to take his mug of grog.

Dr Mortimer was smiling good-naturedly. The spaniel climbed up onto his knees, and as a result, he was practically sitting at the table with everyone else. Nonetheless, nobody considered it needful to express outrage about that. Holmes was smoking his pipe, hiding his slight smirk behind the smoke-rings. Every now and then, he cast a glance first at Stapleton, and then at Sir Hugo's portrait, and smiled.

The short-statured police inspector, whose name seems to have been Lestrade, was shifting from one foot to the other next to the group, fingering his handcuffs.

"Put these away", Sir Charles waved him away. "This is a family affair."

"But attempted murder…" Lestrade stammered.

"This is a family affair," Sir Charles reiterated in the tone which brooked no objection.

Lestrade sighed and put his derbies into his pocket. As if echoing him, another sigh came from outside the door, a sigh which sounded more like the howling of the wind inside the chimney.

"Mrs Barrymore!" Sir Charles called. "If it's not too much trouble, please bring a bowl of something edible outside for the dog."

Mrs Barrymore gave a start and looked at the door in such a way as if she doubted whether it was fitting to call the creature languishing on the other side of the door a dog.

"The owner obviously starved the poor animal", Sir Charles added.

Mrs Barrymore cast a condemning glance at Stapleton, pursed her lips, and departed for the kitchen.

"So, as we have already discerned, it has been a stage-up," uttered Holmes, blowing out a smoke-ring. "Would you be so kind as to make us privy to the details, Sir Charles?"

"Why would I not do so," Sir Charles shrugged. "The gist of the events, as I understand, is already clear to everyone, but to put it briefly, I suppose, this is how matters stand: from being a lone resident of this manor, I became a happy uncle of one nephew…" he gifted Sir Henry a tender smile, "...and an unhappy uncle of another," he nodded to Stapleton. "But let me tell this tale in a more orderly fashion."

"I must say that the rumors about a huge dog which our farmers have seen out on the moor once or twice, have soon made me suspicious. Although it would be more precise to say that I was surprised at the dog's attachment to Baskerville Hall. There are many places in Grimpen where a stray dog can find something to eat and even find shelter. So what could have attracted the dog here, where it is not so easy to find food? Naturally, it made me remember our family legend. My dear nephew Jack obviously must have counted on that. But he failed to take into consideration this factor: a rational person can believe in many different things, but not in a supernatural dog, which has been hanging about his park ever since the time of Oliver Cromwell. In this way, certain suspicions arose in my mind. However, they were too nebulous to share them with the official forces. And I confided only in one person: my faithful friend Dr Mortimer."

Mortimer, who was scratching his dog's silky ear, lifted his head and smiled.

"It was Mortimer who advised me to tame the 'apparition' by feeding it. The poor dog was so hungry that I was able to succeed without much effort. The dog rushed to me happily each time he saw me. I was already beginning to think that my suspiciousness had been unfounded and excessive, when the next time I went to feed the dog, it came all smeared with phosphorus. It truly looked hellish. That is when Mortimer, a connoisseur of antiquity, remembered the exact description of the dog from the legend. It became obvious that I was being hunted, and even though the hunting dog made friends with his prey, nobody could know what other tricks the mysterious hunter could play. That is when we decided to stage my death. The death certificate written out by the faithful Mortimer, a small bribe to the local constable-and Sir Charles Baskerville has departed for the next world. In a way, that is what actually happened. Mortimer found me shelter in one of the crypts of the ancient peoples, that he was excavating at the moment."

"That means you and I were neighbours," Holmes remarked.

"Quite right," Sir Charles nodded. "Incidentally, Mr Holmes, I hope you don't have a grudge against me for this stageplay. I would have never done it if I did not fear for my nephew Henry. While I was hiding among the ancient crypts, it was not in my power to save him from danger. That is why I decided to resort to help of the greatest detective in the world."

Judging by Holmes' pleased smile, it was not difficult to conclude that the apologies had been accepted. However, his modesty did not permit him to expand upon the topic.

"But how did you determine who the malefactor was?" he asked.

"Oh, I've known it all along," Sir Charles responded. "More precisely, we knew. Dr Mortimer was the first to realize all of it."

All eyes were upon the doctor, who involuntarily blushed from embarrassment.

"And how...Oh, confound it, I understand it now!" laughed Holmes.

"What did you understand?" inquired Watson.

"I understand how your colleague realized who the criminal was."

"I haven't understood anything," Watson said honestly.

Holmes lifted his hand to his forehead.

"Exactly!" Mortimer beamed. "The skull."

"I have understood even less," Lestrade sighed.

"Dr Mortimer is an expert in phrenology," Holmes said. "I think the first thing he noticed when he met me was my skull. Besides that, the doctor is an expert in local history, and he knows the entirety of the legend of the Baskervilles. It was from him that I found out that Roger, Sir Charles' younger brother, was the spitting image of his ancestor Hugo-the culprit of the family curse. Certainly Dr Mortimer, of all people, would have noticed the astonishing resemblance of a completely unrelated individual, such as Stapleton claimed to be, with the family portrait of one of the Baskervilles!"

"That is exactly how it all happened," Dr Mortimer confirmed, smiling timidly.

"Good heavens, how absurdly simple!" Watson flung up his hands.

Stapleton sighed. Sir Charles' eyes immediately sought him out.

"You still haven't drunk your grog? You really should. You have a sea voyage ahead of you, and it would be better not to have a cold when you start out upon it."

"What sea voyage?" Henry grumbled. "The Bridgtown Prison is only a very short distance from here."

"Henry dear, we can't disgrace our family in that way. Sir Hugo was more than enough."

Sir Charles stuck his hand under his collar and pulled out a small bundle.

"Here are two tickets for the next ship leaving for Hong Kong. The tickets are made out for Mr and Mrs Wilson. I think that name is just as inconspicuous and common as, say, Stapleton or Vandeleur. However, taking into account how much your spouse's attitude towards you has changed lately, I think it will be in your mutual interests to tear up one of these tickets."

"No!" Jack burst out, when Sir Charles took one of the pieces of paper he'd taken out of the bundle with both hands.

"No?" Sir Charles stopped, surprised. "Are you quite serious? Given the current condition of Mrs Stapleton, in your place I would hope, at best, for a quick and painless death, and even in that, I wouldn't overestimate my chances."

"I am not referring to Beryl," said Jack, climbing out of the armchair.

Holding on to the towels, he glanced around him.

"I think, gentlemen, that you would not be overly upset by my departure. If only my clothing…"

"It has dried, sir," said Barrymore. "But that's all. All the other signs of the mire are still upon it, at this time."

"That's all right," said Stapleton.


	4. Chapter 4 Epilogue

"Where is he going?" Sir Henry asked, looking through the window at his cousin, who was decisively marching towards the gates. In the folds of his sleeves and near his collar, the dried algae crunched, and clay had covered his pant legs as if he were wearing knee socks, but Stapleton was obviously not paying any attention to such trifles. "If he has truly decided to head to Merripit House, I…"

He clenched his fists.

"Do not worry, Sir Henry," Holmes uttered. He was the only person among those who were present who did not get up from the table and walk over to the window, so as to observe the departure of the would-be assassin. "He will walk in another direction."

"How do you know?" Henry asked in surprise.

"He will go in that direction, once he steps outside the gate," Holmes waved his hand.

"He...how did you guess, Holmes?" exclaimed Watson, when Stapleton stepped outside the gates.

"Coombe Tracy is in that direction," Holmes elucidated.

"Laura?" Sir Charles asked, astonished. "You believe that she will go with him?"

Holmes was silent for a minute, all his attention on filling his pipe.

"After the person, who, only by a miracle, avoided the shackles and the Grimpen mire, will come to her first thing…" he said slowly. "...After that-yes, I think she will travel with him."


End file.
